Poetry: March in Vermont
March is a fickly month, it can’t decide
to come in as a lion or to leave like a lamb.
March is often a windy month with kites
appearing on toy store shelves, more often it
blows cold bitter winds filled with snow.
All at once, it seems, comes the change in time
that messes up milking schedules good and fine.
Soon after that March gives us a gift, sap buckets
appear and a cloud of sweetness billows from sugar shacks.
In the barns and fields all over the state lambs frolic
at their mothers’ sides waiting for the greenery of spring to come.
My only worry is that April 1st will come bringing
a joke of snow deep enough to plough through.
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